As the sun went down in a deep crimson segment, like the glow of a ruby, or the danger-signal on a railway, Mr. Sawyer lit a fresh cigar, and began to ponder on the merits of his own riding and the capabilities of his stud. As the daylight waned, and the grey ash of his “choice Laranaga” (seven-and-forty shillings the pound) grew longer and longer, he began to think so much talent was quite wasted in “the provinces”—that he was capable of better things than “showing the way” to the half-dozen of red-coats and couple of farmers who constituted his usual “gallery”—that he was too good for the Old Country, as its sportsmen affectionately designate that picturesque locality in which they follow the chase—and that he was bound to do himself and the little grey horse justice by visiting the wide pastures, the prairie-like grazing-ground of the crack countries; to use his own vernacular, that he ought to “cut the whole concern for a season, and have a turn at the Shires.” His cogitations took some such form as the following:—“Here am I, still on the sunny side of forty—in the prime of my life, of my pluck, of my strength, and—ahem!—of my appearance—none so dusty neither, on horseback, whatever Miss Mexico may think, with her olive skin and her stuck-up airs. After all, I don’t know that I’d have had her, though she _was_ a thirty-thousand pounder! I don’t like ’em touched with the tar-brush. I’m all for the thorough-bred ones—women, as well as horses. Well, here I am, wasting my life in these deserted ploughs. Even if we do get a run, such as we had to-day, I have no one to talk to about it. The Grange is a crafty crib enough, and I’m as comfortable there as a bachelor need to be; but I can’t go home, night after night, to bolt my dinner by myself, smoke by myself to digest it, and go to bed at ten o’clock, because I’m so bored with John Sawyer, and it’s the only way to get rid of him. No, hang it! I’ll emigrate; I’ll go and _hibernate_ in the grass. I’ll make Isaac a stud-groom; I’ll buy a couple more nags, the right sort too—show those dandified chaps how to _ride_, and perhaps sell the lot for a hatful of money at the end of the season, and have all my fun for nothing.” Deluded man! how feasible the latter project sounds—how difficult to realise!